


Am Meer

by isoladea



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Lacunar Amnesia, M/M, Music, Paralysis, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 21:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isoladea/pseuds/isoladea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stage was set: the waters of Isola Bella Bay, Sicily, Italy.  Erik Lehnsherr left the jetset company of Sebastian Shaw and his minions to find a new meaning in life.  His first freelance job in Italy involved teaching piano to a young man who refused to face the fact that his legs would never function again.  To face the past was to face the music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Am Meer

**One — Eisenhardt**

 

By the end of the month, he was in Italy, in a suite that gazed upon the blue waters of the Isola Bella Bay, and he was tired, doused in a suffocating weariness that left him feeling apathetic, as if he was drying inside out under the Sicilian sun. When his companions expressed their desire to join the throng of oiled sunbathers on the gravel beach, he waved them off quietly but firmly, citing a migraine as his reason.

Azazel the Russian loitered behind for some time, silently offering his companionship. He gave him a grateful smile and a pat on his back — he had always favoured Azazel over the other members of the entourage, which the latter had returned in gesture by teaching him how to conjugate Russian nouns — and said thanks, but he would be fine in his lonesome.

“I’ll bring you a girl from the beach, Erik,” Azazel volunteered. “Do you prefer brunettes or blondes?”

Familiar with Azazel’s brand of brash, unflinching humour, wryly he replied, “I do not eat my meals greasy, Azazel. Out there, they are cooking with too much oil.”

Clasping his palm to his heart, Azazel retreated, laughing to the sunny heavens even as he strutted out of the hotel.

It came to him in a sudden rush of realisation as he sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the shuttered, curtained windows. He was thirty-four years old, sitting in a boxed hotel room that could have been anywhere in its isolation — Isola Bella Bay was no different from St Petersburg and St Petersburg from Las Vegas when the windows were shut and the sterile room gave not a hint of a socio-cultural, geopolitical context but the smooth, faceless façade of transit. He barely held any recollection of how he ended up in Sicily in the first place. Unanchored, disoriented, Erik Lehnsherr was tired, aimless, and tired of his own aimlessness. He was, however, more wearied by the aimlessness of his companions. If indeed a month had gone past, it was a month without a face that one could associate with a singular identity, so unremarkable in its succession of pretty cities and pretty hotel rooms bedecked either in impersonal minimalism or arrogant opulence. Alone, with closed windows before him and an open suitcase loitering at the foot of his bed — they were constantly on the move and unpacking was more wasteful than useless — it dawned on him that he could leave, walk out of the hotel, and never be heard again.

A stray German volume of Kafka’s Collected Stories languished on a bedside table. If it had been one of his less beloved books, he would have left it there for the next occupant or cleaning lady to discover, a habit he had been keeping up less out of charity and more for convenience’s sake, because he kept picking up new books wherever he walked, and he had but a mere suitcase in his possession. He deposited Kafka reverently between his folded leather jacket and a copy of De Sade he remembered picking up in Nice; his suitcase made him appear as if he lived off solely from his clothes and books. There was an Italian translation of Murakami’s After Dark from a bookstore in Milan’s Galleria, slim and prim atop a pair of his jeans, a reminder that last week’s stay near the Duomo was real. This memento he picked up and left in a drawer, with the intent of searching out Murakami’s other works the moment he encountered another bookstore.

He slung his violin case onto a broad shoulder and turned off the lights. Suitcase in tow, he was out of Taormina before the hour was up.

 

XXX

 

Castelmola seemed to forever peer down at Taormina, resting at its foot, and forever it seemed to stare at the Ionian Sea. The village was a beacon; leaning on the balcony of his new room in Villa Regina, Erik thought that he could be a fire, the eye of the light. He spent several days re-reading his way through Kafka and Voltaire and Paul Auster during the day and pretending that he could draw ships to the rocks during the night.

He was no longer aimless. He simply had not found his aim. However, he was indeed searching, as if an aim could be found rolling in the distant waves in the bay.

His mobile phone lay silenced in the deepest corner of his suitcase, trapped in a travel pouch that held a thick, heavy envelope, sealed with a drop of red wax. If Azazel or any of the entourage had called, he would have had no way of knowing.

One day, he tucked Kafka under his arm, put on a pair of aviators, and set off towards Taormina. He kept away from the vicinity of the beach, his gaze sliding warily from one passer-by to the next. He recognised no one and no one recognised him — he realised it worked out very much to his liking. Strolling down the noon-heated pavement, he stopped at a local newspaper agency and two tourist centres; he had two advertisements with him, which he sketched out last night in a rush of inspiration, remembrance of his college days. One was in Italian, while the other was written in American English.

 _Tutorials at home for English, French, Spanish, Italian, Polish, and Portuguese. Help with English, French, and Italian Literature. Teaches violin and piano, with Fellowship and Licentiate of the Royal Schools of Music respectively. Negotiable rates and flexible hours. Please contact Eisenhardt at…_

He had provided a local number, which he purchased, along with a second-hand mobile phone, earlier in the morning. With his purpose fulfilled, he jogged the two kilometres back to Castelmola, and arrived just in time for lunch back at Villa Regina. It was only halfway through his wine that he remembered why he had chosen Eisenhardt as his nom-de-plume. He was certain he had seen the name listed in his old mobile phone, the only German name in an otherwise American-dominated amalgamation. However, he could not, for all the almond wine in Sicily, remember who Eisenhardt was.

Turning the name over and over again in his head, like a dice of alphabets, he mulled over its syllables during lunch. When he got up to his room, however, a strong wind was prevailing towards the bay, and he stood on the balcony with his shirt whipping about him, feeling as if he was on the verge of taking off or being carried away. The moment he turned towards the interior of his room was the moment the name was lost on him; the Ionian Sea had descended upon him and Erik Lehnsherr had decided to forgive and forget, while not knowing what it was he was forgiving and forgetting.

In silence, running a callused finger down the tremulous strings of his violin, he waited.

 

XXX

 

Indeed the woman had inquired about his piano playing skills, however, to be on the safe side, he had brought his violin along to Taormina, where she awaited in a restaurant by Teatro Greco-Romano. The sun was especially bright, and the population seemed to be concentrated on the beach, where bodies lay to be sizzled and tanned and packaged into a holiday shade of red-brown. Her attire was smart and crisp, with pumps, a tight skirt, and a formal blouse — she looked out of place in summer’s Taormina of tourists. Through her cigarette’s veil of smoke, she appeared to be in her forties, although her voice had the scratchy quality of a well-worn vinyl record, a smoker’s rasp: “Mr Eisenhardt.”

“Mrs Xavier,” he greeted her in return, and they shook hands in silence.

She gave his violin case a sidelong glance, before diving sharply into business. Her voice was a cool, detached monotone. “You will be tutoring my son in piano. You may start tomorrow, and you will stay with him for however long he wishes you to stay. You will be paid by the hour. Should your lesson extend to mealtimes, you will be fed by the housekeeper, gratis.” She slid a piece of paper across the table, which he picked up and studied without a sound. “His name is Charles Xavier. Nineteen years old. Whatever your rate is, simply quote it to him, for he will pay you. It is quite a hassle to find an English-speaking teacher in this part of the world, especially one with such flexible requirements.”

Brusquely, she stood up, extinguishing her cigarette in the provided ashtray.

He caught her with a question before she could turn on her heels. “Does he have any experience of playing the piano?”

There was an odd look on her face, as if she had been forced to recall something most terribly discomfiting. “I believe Brian — my late husband — did teach him how to play a piece when he was ten. If you would excuse me, Mr Eisenhardt,” she said, already walking towards the exit, “I have a flight to catch.” Without further ceremony, she was gone, and, with that, Sharon Xavier permanently walked out of Erik Lehnsherr’s life. Neither of them would see each other again for the rest of their existence.

On the steps of the Teatro, he sat down, squinting against the sun, through the gaps in the decaying stonework, and fixed his gaze upon the choppy waters. Isola Bella Bay was tipped with a nature reserve at one end of its curve and a tiny green island on the other. A granite walkway served as silver needle that connected the island to the mainland. Like a sliver of umbilical cord made of stone, the walkway seemed to tether the island to Taormina amidst the raging waves, which foamed white and violent as they broke and thrashed against the rough rocks.

The original idea was to convince the client to hire him, check out the client’s address — hence eliminating the hassle of searching for the correct house on his first day of work — and perhaps find a suitably isolated spot, where he could tune and brush the rust off the strings of his violin. He recalled the sensation of holding the bow in his fingertips: the pull of the horsehair on the ebony wood, the spring and glide of the hair across taut strings, and the pure, unadulterated satisfaction of rediscovering the bow’s balance — the minutiae of its tremble and poise, from the heartbeat bursts of staccato to the drawn-out languor of legato. If it had been another day, another time, he would have shut out the world and extracted the violin from where it lay slumbering. Tartini sang out to him; he wanted to taste the Devil’s Trill, its initial larghetto and the build up for tempo. If it had been another day, perhaps, when he had less care of the world and the attention an errant violinist it might bequeath.

To reach the island was to cross the beach and pass by La Plage. This he was not prepared to do when he put up his advertisement. He purchased a tan fedora in a tourist gift shop, paying almost absentmindedly. Rifling through the bills in his travel-worn wallet, he found — amongst the obligatory euro — American dollars and a smattering of British pounds. He knew he was staying in New York, although for the concept of his life there was but a fuzzy nagging he preferred to avoid; the British currency, however, might as well as appear out of nowhere, and that was how it seemed to him. Unsettled, he pulled the brim of his new hat low over his face. Under the aviators and the fedora, he walked out into the sun and towards La Plage Resort.

He avoided the beach at all cost, and hurried his pace as he passed through the vicinity of the resort. If he recognised anyone, it was a redheaded child whom he encountered in the breakfast room several mornings ago. There were no indications that his initial companions were around; in fact, they could have left Taormina and Sicily for good and he would have had no idea.

Crossing the walkway, he did not reduce his speed until he was safely ensconced within the green shadows of the island. A single path of white gravel led him through the forested area, but not even the gnarled barks of the trees could erase the presence of the sea: the air was sweet and salty, and, like a faraway beast, the waves roared on the rocky bay. He pinned his aviators to the front of his polo shirt. Blinking from the sudden shift of lighting, he travelled on.

The deserted path looped and coiled in itself under the cobalt sky. Despite his mounting irritation, he acknowledged that the path was built for a scenic walk in mind. Speed and convenience seemed secondary in the aquatic green grasp of the island’s jungle. When the trees finally cleared, the path forked into two: one wound itself back into the cool embrace of the canopies, while one twisted itself up a slope, upon which rested a structure of dark wood — the salt-bleached colour of piers — and large, tinted windows.

The Xaviers’ villa resembled a curious piece of bark that had expanded and grown sides of deep blue glass, mimicking the sea depths several miles off the coast. It was a quiet minimalist’s design, which modernity seemed humble enough to weave itself into the familiarity of the trees flanking its sides. From the front porch, a path wavered into existence, and this led into a cluster of trees and extended beyond the house, no doubt descending onto a private stretch of beach. Encircling the villa was a tall iron fence, with the occasional sign of ‘Private Property. No Trespassing.’ The front gate was a small, personal affair, guarded by security housed in a sizeable cottage.

Presently a man walked out of the cottage, a man of taut, muscular build and imposing sideburns. He wore no uniform; the faded undershirt did little to hide the rippling of his torso, and his legs were ensconced in a pair of baggy cargo pants — plenty of room for weapon concealment — that ended in a worn down pair of military boots. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his lips. The effect was that of a man capable of casual violence, which was more intimidating than a formal, stuffy security guard would ever hope to make. Erik eyed him curiously from his spot on the path, keeping his posture relaxed and unmoving.

“You,” the man growled, jabbing a finger at Erik. “That a violin? Thought you’re only coming tomorrow.”

Shrugging the case off his shoulder and raising it like a peace offering, Erik said, “I am only expected to come by tomorrow. However, I thought it would be a good idea to check the location first. The directions I got were relatively vague.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah? Tell me about it.”

Stepping forward, Erik handed the man the slip of paper Mrs Xavier had provided. Scratched on a piece of memo filched from a hotel in Paris, in a slanted, sharp handwriting, were the words:

 _Isola Bella Bay. Island villa. Follow the granite path from the beach. Don’t stray from the gravel pathway. If necessary, ask for Xaviers’ villa._

“Mrs Xavier gave this to me.”

“Looks like the missus’ handwriting,” the guard said, grinning around his cigarette. “Looks pretty much like her sense of direction, too. You had any trouble finding this place?”

Leaning against the ironwork of the fence, Erik gave a non-committal grunt. “I had a rough idea of this place and confirmed it with the girl in the hat shop,” he said. “The way is pretty straightforward. You just have to be sure which island you are meant to be visiting.”

The man was fiddling with the lock of the gate. “Ain’t bad, Mr Eisenhardt,” he praised smoothly, his grin widening by fractions. “Ain’t bad at all. Come on in. Guess you can just start your lessons sooner by a day.” Peering at Erik’s face, he questioned in a low tone, “You don’t mind, do you?”

He had no teaching materials and intended not to have any, save for a pencil in his back pocket for adding notes on the music sheets. He had several minuets and nocturnes stashed in the pocket of his violin case. “No,” he stated. “It’s all right.”

 

XXX

 

The Xaviers’ villa was a testament to the humility of an understatement. The ceiling, walls, and floor mirrored the dark, weatherworn wood of the exterior, and the furniture seemed to have grown as protrusions of the inner surfaces of the villa. Every ray of sunlight was filtered through the ocean glass of the windows, casting a watery tint in every room. It was the experience of walking underwater, underneath a canopy of boardwalks and piers. All balcony doors were left open in fine weather, and the scent of the ocean settled from nook to nook like a marine cloud of perfume.

Too vivid and crystalline for a mere concept, the villa stood like a man’s dream — a real man with a real existence that belonged to the solid ground and not to the nebulous concept of hypothetical individuals — brought into life.

The signs of active living within the confines of the villa were relatively sparse and few in between. There was a teetering pile of old Vogue issues stacked unceremoniously on a coffee table. A James Bond novel, in English, had been left open and facedown on a sofa. A telephone sat primly on a marble-topped table, but the sitting room contained no television; it looked straight at the glass walls of the seaside view of the villa, and the balcony looked down at the waves foaming white and rabid on the rocks a steep cliff below.

The guard, Logan, reached the spiral staircase and began to make his rapid descent into the basement. “The kids are probably by the pool,” he muttered, strong legs making quick work of the curling steps.

Underground seemed to possess walls made purely out of glass. The floor betrayed all expectations and was made of blocks of granite, on which expanse a swimming pool had been raised, made of black marble and filled to the brim with sloshing salty water. A blonde girl lay sprawled, asleep, on a white beach chair. A pencil languished on the floor beside her chair, and clutched to her bosom was a book of Daily Telegraph’s crosswords. Beside the upraised pool, in its lonesome, was the metal structure of an incongruous wheelchair.

The water was initially still. It took a heartbeat, and then, like the breaking of waves and the birth of foam, he rose from its inky depths, droplets sliding off the pale expanse of his skin, the cold whiteness of his nose. He rose from the deep like sea foam.

“Mr Eisenhardt, I presume?” the man-like creature said smoothly, quietly, so as not to wake the girl up. He swung his legs, which were disproportionately small and lean — atrophied — when compared to his faintly fleshy build, out of the water and over the edge of the pool. “I was told to expect you by tomorrow only. Welcome to the villa. My name is Charles Xavier.”


End file.
